The Ice Man Cometh
by Deklava
Summary: Mycroft punishes Sherlock for revealing the jumbo jet scheme to Irene Adler. Rated M for Holmescest, D/s, and corpses on a plane.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** this fic involves abuse of virgin!Sherlock and some serious Holmescest as well as minor spoilers for ASIB. I think you all know what to expect from me by now.

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><p>Mycroft managed to control himself until the driver let him off outside his townhouse. Once the door was locked, the violent trembling started. He dropped his precious umbrella and ran shaking fingers through his neat hair. Even his breath came out in stuttering gasps.<p>

Moriarty knew about the jumbo jet scheme. Because Sherlock had foolishly rambled to Irene Adler about the particulars. The whole operation, which involved months of planning and the cooperation of several nations, had to be abandoned.

In an hour he would be confronting Sherlock about his unforgivable lapse in judgement. And then punishing him for it.

He could hardly wait.

By the time Mycroft reached his bedroom, the front of his trousers was soaked. Normally fastidious, he now undid his Italian leather belt and hurled it to the floor with such force that its buckle chipped the wood. Then he yanked both trousers and pants off as if they were tearaway items and not worth more than most people made in a month. His cock bobbed angrily, its sticky string of pre-ejaculate swinging in the air.

Mycroft cringed at the apologies and promises he'd have to make to his political masters when they learned of the debacle. But the thought of punishing the guilty party –after they'd been stripped naked and made to kneel at his feet- excited him immeasurably.

First he had to take the edge off.

Stripping off his waistcoat but leaving his grey silk shirt and tie on, Mycroft crawled onto the massive four-poster bed. He arched his back, pressing his shoulders against the mattress and shoving his arse higher into the air. The stretch felt so good; he impulsively imagined that an aggressive, handsome man –perhaps that Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard, Gregory Lestrade- was hovering behind him, ready to grab his hips any minute and stuff him full of thick, pulsating cock.

"Fuck," he seethed behind clenched teeth. He reached under the mountain of gold-fringed pillows, and grabbed the vibrator and bottle of lube. His movements were quick and desperate: he needed that toy inside him, dilating his tight passage and assailing his prostate until orgasm calmed the fury.

He could not afford to be in anything less than complete control when he left for the private airfield in half an hour.

As he slicked the vibrator up, Mycroft imagined what Sherlock's reaction would be to his imminent discipline. There'd be surprise when his older brother slapped the arrogant expression off his face, but they'd punched each other before, so the shock would be fleeting. But when Mycroft dragged him into the first-class cabin, stripped him, and spanked him….well, _that_ would be a terrifying first. Then, once the fight was smacked and stroked out of him and he was begging for more instead of less, Sherlock Holmes would experience another first.

The man had been a virgin far too long. It was clouding his judgement, making him excessively neurotic even for a Holmes.

_It's my duty to help him._

Mycroft rolled onto his side and tucked one knee up to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the device at the base, lined it up with his hole, which was also shiny with lube, and slowly slid it in. He moaned in ecstasy as the blunt tip glided past his tight ring of muscle and grazed his prostate. Then it was all the way in.

He paused, letting his body adjust to the invasion. His cock pressed against his belly, smearing sticky fluid all over his shirt hem. Oh, so good. He glided the vibrator in and out of his slippery passage, shivering at the resulting pleasure, before finally switching the device on.

"Oh, fuck!" The vibrations shivered through him, making his nerves sing. Mycroft fucked his own slick fist while using the other hand to shove the toy in harder, deeper. He rolled partway onto his front and lifted his leg higher to get a better angle, feeling the excess lube drip down his crack onto the duvet like a lover's cooling release. The prostate stimulation was so intense that he dug his teeth into one of the pillows, and felt the fabric tear.

"Oh dear, you _are_ a pillow biter, Mr. Holmes. And to think that Jim calls you the Ice Man."

Mycroft's head shot off the mangled pillow.

Fabric rustled in the shadows near the wardrobe. Then Irene Adler emerged from her hiding spot in full battle costume, which in her case was nothing except a pair of sky-high stilettos. Her scarlet lips twisted playfully, but her stare looked positively _hungry_.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," she said as she climbed onto the bed and stretched out next to him.

He stared at her, lips parted in shock and disbelief. He started to rise and pull the vibrator out, but she caught his wrist and pushed firmly, driving it back in so deep that he moaned.

"I said don't stop, Mr. Holmes. Please… just listen."

If she hadn't said please, Mycroft would have hurled her to the floor. He might even have snapped her neck. The type of havoc she had caused him mandated a death sentence under ordinary circumstances. But for Irene Adler to be so amiable, even beseeching… something was afoot. He would hear her out, and perhaps make her suffer later.

Irene's grin widened at his acquiescence. "Pleasuring yourself like this while I watch: most men pay a thousand pounds a session for the privilege."

"Consider yourself 'privileged' that I'm not choking the life out of you right now."

She licked her lips. "You _are_ dangerous."

Mycroft wasn't in the mood for verbal foreplay. He hadn't gotten off yet, so the rage still brewed in his guts. He lunged at her, the vibrator falling onto the duvet, and pinned her to the mattress. She groaned as his bulky body, feverish with unsatisfied lust, crushed her slim form, but when he shoved her legs apart and plunged in to the hilt, the cry's tone shifted from surprised to ecstatic.

"I'm more dangerous than your precious Moriarty, and if you're lucky, you'll live to see me take him apart piece by piece," he hissed into her ear as he fucked her. She was sweet, hot, tight, and… and…for sale.

_Yes. Shame to waste such a brilliant mind. If all it took was money…._

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, yes… I want that. That's why… why I'm here… also about your brother…."

So in between punishing thrusts that nearly drove both of them into the headboard, he listened.


	2. Chapter 2

Fucking Irene Adler so hard that the mahogany headboard cracked had definitely been worth it, Mycroft reflected during the limo ride to the airfield. The bone-shattering orgasm had taken the edge off his anger, leaving him in a better frame of mind to deal with his errant brother. Even the scratches that now made his shirt stick painfully to his back were forgivable.

Irene sat on the opposite seat, next to Anthea, who tapped cheerfully away on a Blackberry. A black silk dress covered her own battle wounds.

"You're not an Ice Man at all," she mused.

"But my brother IS a virgin."

"Which we shall do something about."

"Yes, that's part of our bargain." He reclined against the rich leather seat and crossed his legs, smugly aware that "the Woman" eyed him appreciatively when she thought he wasn't looking. He knew that powerful men fascinated Irene: she loved to find the chink in their armour, the weakness that could be spun into gold.

"You should wear dark gray more often, Mr. Holmes. It suits you."

He looked pointedly at a dark spot on her calf. "You should be bruised more often, Miss Adler. It suits you."

She laughed in delight, flashing pearly teeth. "Perhaps I will. I just never encountered anyone with a firmer hand than mine."

"Does that include James Moriarty?"

"Oh, no, he likes dressing up as-"

Mycroft arched one eyebrow. She smirked. "Maybe later, when we've had each other more than once."

The closer they got to the airfield, the more excited Irene became. She too, anticipated Sherlock's imminent debasement with fierce pleasure. She shifted on the seat, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and cast lusty glances at Anthea's curvaceous figure. Mycroft's grin widened when she finally grasped his assistant's thigh and said throatily, "Your P.A.'s so lovely. May I?"

"Ask her."

Irene slid off the seat in a whisper of dark silk, knelt between Anthea's knees, and leaned forward until their lips were inches apart.

"Well, my lovely? How about a taste?"

Anthea regarded her placidly for a moment before shrugging, pocketing the Blackberry, and lying back. "Sure. Why not?"

"My assistant broke up with her boyfriend a week ago," Mycroft supplied. "She appreciates your kind offer as much as I do."

He enjoyed the show, his cock twitching appreciatively when Anthea's moans escalated and Irene's hair, which she'd carefully re-styled, was tugged into a wild mess. The Adler woman was fascinating indeed: beauty, brains, and sexually opportunistic. Protocol dictated that she be disposed of after Moriarty was contained, but Mycroft was inclined to be merciful. She'd agreed to help him with the 'Sherlock situation' after all, and nothing in his agreement with his superiors said that he couldn't keep a personal pet or two.

He'd have to keep her in line though. Irene fed on weaknesses, secrets, and chaos like vampires devoured blood. She'd turn on him the moment she scented opportunity. But he'd be ready.

It would be so pleasant to be on edge around someone once again.

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><p>Sherlock, predictably, reacted to Mycroft's scolding with disdain. His lips curled into a sneer, and he refused to take any responsibility, insisting that his older brother's inept employees were to blame for the project leak. It wasn't until Irene, perfectly coiffed and composed once again, appeared at the other end of the corpse-laden jet that the younger Holmes demonstrated anything but bratty, insolent behaviour.<p>

"You were right, Mr. Holmes," she said as she strolled down the dimly lit aisle, hips swaying. "Junior here needs a spanking in the most dreadful way."

Sherlock stiffened. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"Treatment, Sherlock, nothing more." Mycroft tossed his umbrella onto one of the few unoccupied seats and seized his younger brother's arms, pulling them behind his back. Sherlock struggled and blurted, "You're fucking mad! Treatment for what?"

"Please, brother mine, you want me to make a list?"

"Let me go now!" Sherlock lunged forward, trying to break the grip, but Irene kneed him in the crotch, hard enough to make him yelp.

"Naughty boy," she chided while he stared at her in disbelief. "Such nasty language- don't make me muzzle you."

"What's going on?" he choked.

"You're going to be punished, Sherlock." Mycroft hauled off his heavy coat and secured his wrists with metal cuffs. "You can fight it or you can relax and enjoy it. It will all be the same to Miss Adler and I."

Sherlock struggled to reassert himself. "Can you two play this little game some other night? And preferably without me? You both deserve each other."

"Oh dear," Irene sighed. "You were warned."

She took out a leather bit out of her shoulder bag and pushed it between Sherlock's teeth before he had time to react. Mycroft gripped his hair, holding his head steady while she fastened the straps.

"There. Much better when only grown-ups are allowed to do the talking."

Sherlock glared daggers at her and hollered abuse behind the rigid gag. Mycroft dragged him backward, into the first class section of the aircraft, which was corpse-free.

"Sorry, little brother, but you're making me do this."

He pulled Sherlock into the center row at the front, sat down, and dragged the squirming, kicking form over his knees. When Sherlock froze at the feeling of a rigid cock poking into his belly, Mycroft laughed.

"I suppose I should have told you how much I've been looking forward to this."

Taking advantage of his brother's distraction, he quickly undid Sherlock's trousers and pulled them down, along with his pants.

Now it was Mycroft's turn to pause. Sherlock had a beautiful arse: white, smooth, and (_My God, yes, I'm really going to do this_) untouched. Unexplored. Unawakened. He ran his fingers over that soft expanse of skin, and then palmed it roughly.

"I should have done this to you long ago. Well, better late than never."

Using his right forearm to hold Sherlock in place, he brought his left hand down hard on that squirming arse. As his anger and excitement rose, he administered stronger, crueller blows that turned the cool white skin hot and red. Sherlock howled and fought like a rabbit in a snare, but Mycroft could feel his brother's growing hardness rubbing against his leg.

_His body and mind are at war. Fascinating. And delicious._

"Enjoying this, are you? I'm afraid that won't do."

Irene appeared in front him, eyes alight with malicious pleasure. "Use this," she said, holding out a riding crop. "He certainly became compliant when I used it on him the last time."

He thanked her and took it. Sherlock raised his head, breathing heavily through his nose. When he saw the instrument in Mycroft's grip, his eyes widened and he renewed his struggles. His erection, however, did not diminish. A clear trail of viscous fluid ran from his cock to the carpeted floor.

The crop made a chilling noise as it cut through the air. The crisp _smack_ of its impact against Sherlock's sore arse, followed by muffled screams, brought Mycroft dangerously close to orgasm. The undulating pressure of his brother's stomach against his swollen crotch made sweat break out on his forehead and his balls tighten, but he controlled himself. There was no way he was going to come and lose his edge before Sherlock's submission was accomplished.

A few more blows, and he could feel pre-come seeping through his trouser leg. Sherlock was so close: his struggles were less hysterical and he was now practically rutting against his older brother's thigh. Tossing the crop aside, Mycroft snapped his fingers at Irene.

"Lube."

"Been waiting for you to ask. Poor boy's long past ready."

She handed him the tube, and held Sherlock in place while he slicked up all four fingers on his left hand.

"You've taken that so well, Sherlock, you deserve a reward," she cooed as she tugged his trousers and pants all the way off.

Sherlock did not resist when his handlers turned him over and repositioned him so that he was facing Mycroft, straddling his lap. When two slick digits crept between his bruised buttocks and stroked his entrance, he moaned and arched his back. Garbled pleas sounded past the gag.

"We could stop right now, little brother," Mycroft purred, looking up at Sherlock's flushed, sweating face. "What do you think?"

Sherlock stared back, his pupils dilated with need.

"You have to give me a signal." Mycroft inserted two fingers up to the first knuckle. The silky heat that enveloped his digits was exquisite. "Your punishment's over. Do you want to stop now?" As he spoke, he slid his fingers in further, until he detected that small bundle of nerves that made most men insane with need. Smiling wickedly, he pressed down.

Sherlock practically went into convulsions on his lap: only Irene's firm hold on his shoulders kept him from tumbling to the floor. "Hnnnngh," he sobbed.

"Well? Ten seconds to decide."

Sherlock took deep, shuddering breaths through his nose. He shook his head.

"No? No, don't stop or no, it's enough."

There was no way Sherlock could properly answer, and they both knew it. Mycroft smirked while the younger Holmes whimpered.

"The decision's mine, then. I think you can take more. Much more. So I'm going to give it to you."

Without warning, he pulled his fingers out and pushed Sherlock off his lap. Irene stepped back quickly but gracefully and leaned against the wall, arms crossed and tongue running over her red lips. "You're in trouble now, darling," she purred to the bewildered figure on the floor.

Mycroft straightened his jacket and tie and crossed his legs. He knew what he must look like to his half-dressed, undone brother right now.

A Master.

"Miss Adler, take that device off of his mouth."

She complied before resuming her former position.

Mycroft steepled his fingertips and rested his chin on them. "Come here, Sherlock."

Licking his lips and rotating his jaw, Sherlock struggled to his knees. He looked positively debauched: his cheeks were the same florid color as his buttocks, his white shirt hung open, and his cock was a desperate, angry red. His mouth was now unhindered, but he did not scream threats or abuse. He merely kept his wide blue eyes fixed on his brother's face as he shuffled forward until they were close enough to feel each other's breath. Then Sherlock sighed deeply, bent down, and rested his forehead against Mycroft's knees.

"Don't stop," he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

Those two words, which contained more emotion and surrender than he'd ever heard Sherlock express before, made Mycroft pause. He stared down at that bowed head, and resisted the urge to slip a hand under his brother's chin, raise it, and claim that cupid's-bow mouth in a fierce but loving kiss. His rage had calmed, and now he wanted to gather that thin, dishevelled body in his arms and reassure him that the punishment had been inflicted out of love as well as anger.

Sherlock didn't need or want petting or soothing right now, he reminded himself. The younger Holmes, in words as well as posture, was begging for firm handling. _His cock is hard but his mind is relaxing. He knows he needs more. _

It all made sense now. After the cabbie shooting, Mycroft's man on the scene had reported that John had called Sherlock an idiot and the younger man smiled shyly in response. Mycroft thought at the time that the man was mistaken, and scolded him accordingly. Now he wondered whether his brother's reaction was a faint signal of an unfilled need. Many people abused Sherlock: his haughty manner and acidic tongue provoked it. But had anyone really _dominated _him before?

Mycroft understood that desire well. His cravings had been similar when he was younger and rebelling against a world that seemed so stupid and pointless. He'd been out of control, defying (begging?) anyone to stop him. Then his weapons instructor at MI6 took him firmly in hand one night at the academy, bending him forcefully over a brightly polished desk and cropping his arse black and blue before fucking him until he came so hard that he nearly fainted. It had all hurt, but the sense of peace that followed the punishment left him tranquil for days.

He loved Sherlock enough to pass on the lesson. He also desired his brother enough to fuck him the way he needed.

Irene was silent. She understood too. Had it been the same for her?

"Look at me, Sherlock," Mycroft finally ordered. "Don't say anything either. Just shut up and listen."

Sherlock obeyed.

"This-" Mycroft gestured toward his bruised arse"-was just the beginning. You need more. And I'm pleased that you've just admitted it."

Sherlock's breathing quickened and his eyes reflected an enormous need. Mycroft did touch his chin then, keeping their combined stares level.

"You're to do everything I tell you. One stroppy comment or complaint and you walk home. Nod to indicate that you understand."

Sherlock's jaw quivered as he nodded.

"Excellent." Fighting to keep the arousal out of his tone, Mycroft released the younger man's chin, uncrossed his legs, and said, "Undo my zip. With your mouth."

Irene's breath caught in her throat. Sherlock blinked once. Then he bent forward, and Mycroft felt those soft lips grazing his crotch, seeking the zipper. When he found it, he took it between his teeth and lowered it carefully. Mycroft's erection poked through the gap immediately, covered only by the thin silk of his boxers.

The elder Holmes gripped the armrests and inhaled. When he could trust his voice, he said briskly, "Very good. Now take out my cock."

Again a blink, but Sherlock quickly complied. When Mycroft felt his flushed, rock-hard shaft spring free and graze one perfect cheekbone, he swallowed heavily. Sherlock was almost angelic in his beauty, and he resisted the urge to grab those now-matted curls and force-feed himself into that warm mouth. But no. He had to demonstrate the same level of control he was demanding of his brother.

"I think I know the answer, but I'm going to ask anyway. Have you ever sucked a cock before? Nod yes or no."

Sherlock shook his head. Fear and arousal flitted around on his face, fighting each other to be the dominant expression.

"Time to change that then. Put your mouth on mine, right at the tip."

Sherlock made an anxious noise, but Mycroft let it pass when he parted his lips and took the first couple of inches into his wet mouth. "I'm sure this is a superfluous warning, little brother, but if I feel teeth, I'll rip them out of your head."

Sherlock nodded, but judging from his steadily leaking cock, the threat turned him on more than it scared him. Calmly, steadily, Mycroft put one hand on his head and ordered, "Now suck me. Move your mouth up and down, going as deep as you can. Don't hold out on me either- I'll know if you're not performing to capacity."

He backed up the warning with a soft yank on his brother's curls. Sherlock's cheeks hollowed and he tightened his lips around Mycroft's shaft before bobbing his head. Mycroft sighed in pleasure at the suction that built up. When Sherlock, inspired, began circling his cockhead with his tongue during each upward pull, he bit his lip to force back a moan.

"He's a natural," Irene said breathlessly.

Mycroft reached out, grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the seat next to him. Without giving her chance to reorient herself, he claimed her mouth, pushing his tongue inside and nipping at her painted lips. As far as Mycroft was concerned, she belonged to him now. They both did. Outside, she might be the dominatrix who brought England to its knees and Sherlock a celebrity consulting detective, but on this flight of the dead, they were extensions of his will.

Just like practically everyone else.

Saliva was now filling and dribbling out of Sherlock's mouth, the resulting wetness making the blowjob even more exquisite. When he felt his balls tighten and tremors course through his cock, Mycroft broke Irene's kiss and hissed at his brother, "When I come, you're swallowing it all, you understand? Lose one drop and it's game over."

Sherlock breathed through his nose and nodded as best he could. Mycroft's hips started rocking and his hand squeezed Irene's ample breasts as the tension in his groin intensified. "Here it comes," he exclaimed, a split second before he shot one wad after another down his brother's moist throat.

Sherlock held still until Mycroft stopped shooting, and then swallowed with an audible gulp. His brow furrowed at the unfamiliar taste, but he didn't wince or gag. The elder Holmes slipped his softening cock out and, on impulse, grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and brought their lips together. He tasted himself on that eager tongue, and once more pride and affection surged through him.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "What you drive me to do…"

Sherlock whispered, "Thank you." The sound of his voice snapped Mycroft back into character.

"We're not done yet, little brother. You're going to be feeling my cock one more time. Turn around, and lean over."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This is a darker version of Mycroft than I usually write, but whumping Sherlock is so much fun...


	4. Chapter 4

Even when semi-flaccid Mycroft's cock was above average size, and the younger Holmes regarded it warily, like one would a slumbering beast. Mycroft could see the calculations going through his head: solid mouthful = literal pain in the arse. Blinking nervously, Sherlock looked up, seeking reassurance.

Mycroft had no intention of hurting Sherlock. The time for punishment was past. He would make his excuses to his superiors, keeping Sherlock's involvement in the security breach a secret, and go after James Moriarty with all the resources he could command. Mycroft only wanted to pleasure his brother now, introduce him to desires he didn't realize he had.

He took Sherlock's face in his hands, and brushed those swollen lips with his own. Sherlock's breathing calmed and he relaxed into the kiss. When he became bold enough to try slipping his tongue into Mycroft's mouth, the elder Holmes drew back.

"I'm not going to tell you again, Sherlock. Turn around. Shoulders on the floor, back arched. Arse toward me." Then, in a gentler tone, he added, "You'll enjoy it. I promise."

Sherlock swallowed hard, but his anxiety had visibly lessened and anticipation now radiated from every pore. Moving awkwardly on his knees, he turned around and lowered his shoulders carefully to the floor, cuffed wrists joined at the small of his back. The position spread his red, bruised buttocks, revealing the tight hole that still glistened with lube from its earlier breaching. Mycroft's fingertips grazed it gently; it clenched at the feathery touch, making his cock stir back to life.

"I'm going to make you mine. Tonight. Is that what you want?"

Sherlock turned his head, cheek brushing against the carpeting. "Yes, Mycroft," he rasped. The rigid cock that swung heavily between his legs verified it.

"I believe you. Because you know you need it."

_Just like I needed it when the academy was ready to expel me. _Mycroft shuddered as he remembered once again his 'awakening' in the weapons instructor's office. Summoned there late at night for calling the man a moron during shooting practice, he'd been grabbed and pushed face down on a massive desk, arm twisted behind his back. "You have potential that I'm not going to let you ruin with that attitude," the instructor grunted before tearing his trousers and pants off. "You've had this coming a long time, Holmes…."

And he had. Sherlock was no different.

He picked up the lubricant and re-slicked his fingers. Irene watched greedily, drawing her legs up onto the seat and hugging her knees. "You two are inspiring together," she said. "I feel I should be paying to watch."

Mycroft just smiled. Irene Adler was as tough as she was beautiful, but men and women submitted to her stinging whips and scalding words because they craved such treatment badly enough to pay for it. People submitted to Mycroft because he understood instinctively how to arouse their desires as well as fears. In exchange for surrender, he offered sexual gratification, financial reward, the end of a bloody interrogation, whatever it took.

His younger brother had been the only exception to that rule. Until now. And it was taking every ounce of his self-control to keep from coming again at the mere realization that he, Mycroft Holmes, had brought the volatile and beautifully defiant Sherlock Holmes to his knees.

Leaning forward, Mycroft used his thumb to gently massage lube across the puckered opening. When the muscle relaxed, he pressed inside, burying his index finger in the warm, gripping passage. Sherlock panted as the digit was worked in and out, gradually loosening his entrance enough to take another finger. The younger Holmes moaned at its entry and rocked his hips, trying to fuck himself, but Mycroft dealt a slap with his other hand.

"None of that. I decide what you get, and when. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip. But at the same time, he shuffled his knees further apart and arched his spine with more dramatically, silent begging for deeper penetration.

Irene just smirked.

While continuing to finger-fuck his brother, Mycroft lowered his other hand, which still tingled from the slap, and fondled Sherlock's balls. They were hard and drawn up. Good. He released them and reached lower, until his fingers closed around Sherlock's leaking erection. The younger man moaned and his anal muscles contracted, squeezing down on the fingers that stroked him internally.

"Mycroft, please," he half-sobbed.

"Yes, little brother? Is there something you want from me?" As he spoke, he worked a third finger into that desperate, willing body and pressed down on the swollen knot of Sherlock's prostate.

"Ggguhhhh!" Sherlock shook all over. "Please, please…."

"Something troubling you?"

Irene started to giggle, but shut up when Mycroft flashed a warning glare.

"I… I want… oh, God."

"Are you ready for me to fuck you now? Hmmm?"

"Oh God, yes."

Mycroft took his fingers out and wiped them on a tissue. Then he unzipped and ordered Irene, "Slick me up."

She took the lube bottle from him, poured some onto her hand, and reached for his penis.

"No. Do it on your knees."

Irene hesitated. She was the one who normally gave the orders, and being on the receiving end upset her equilibrium. Mycroft understood, but he wasn't going to allow it: her survival hinged on her complete cooperation. Making a noise that sounded like a sigh and a growl combined, he seized her arm and pushed her off the chair to the floor.

"Don't make me do that again, Miss Adler."

"I'm sorry." She reached for him again, but he grasped her chin and forced her to look him in the eye.

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"Better. Carry on."

When he released her, she took him in her warm, slippery fist and stroked until the entire shaft was thickly lubricated. When he brushed her hand away and slid to the floor on his knees, she scooted back a few feet, watching hungrily.

Mycroft lowered his trousers and pants to mid-thigh and guided his cock toward Sherlock's primed hole. When the younger Holmes felt the swollen tip nudge against his sphincter, he took deep, gulping breaths and pressed his forehead against the floor. Mycroft put a steadying hand on his hip.

"Relax," he murmured. His fingers trailed along the soft curve of Sherlock's arse before he gripped his brother's narrow waist and pushed forward. Sherlock's opening resisted for a split second before relaxing and allowing him inside. Mycroft penetrated him slowly but steadily, loving the feel of the virgin hole stretching around and gripping his cock.

"You feel incredible," he whispered.

Sherlock grunted, and clenched down when Mycroft glided across his prostate. It felt so good that the older man wanted to start pounding immediately, to relieve the fiery, coiling tightness in his groin, but he wouldn't risk hurting his brother. He halted all motion until Sherlock pushed back against him, wordlessly requesting more. Thus encouraged, Mycroft pressed inward until he was buried in that sweet, tight heat to the hilt.

Mycroft cursed the fact that this silent jet was not rigged up with a CCTV surveillance system. He would have loved to watch the footage later. Closing his eyes, he imagined how he must look, still mostly dressed, taking his half-naked brother's virginity in the dimness of a darkened jumbo jet while England's foremost dominatrix knelt a few feet away.

Sherlock trembled from excitement and probably a bit of discomfort, so Mycroft undid his handcuffs and tossed them to Irene. "Touch yourself, Sherlock," he ordered. "It will make things easier."

Sherlock planted one hand on the floor and reached for his crotch with the other. He grasped his cock and tugged on it, the pre-ejaculate smoothing the way. "Mmmmm," he whispered. "Feels so good."

"And how does this feel?" Mycroft withdrew partway and slid back in again, angling the thrust so that his shaft grazed Sherlock's prostate. The younger man let out a bellow and rotated his hips.

"Do it again! Please! Harder! Fuck me!"

Smiling triumphantly at the desperate plea, Mycroft began fucking him in earnest: deep, powerful thrusts that managed to stimulate all pleasure centers at once. Sherlock gripped his own cock tightly, letting Mycroft's movements slide him in and out of his own slippery fist. In a fit of perverse mischief, the elder Holmes slid out of him entirely and rubbed the blunt, wet tip teasingly against Sherlock's eager entrance.

"I think I've had enough, little brother."

Sherlock looked back at him, dismayed. That was when Mycroft chuckled darkly, seized his hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, and plunged back in with such force that Sherlock's head nearly hit the wall.

That was all it took: Sherlock shuddered all over just before hot semen exploded across his fist and onto the floor. His arsehole pulsed with the force of the orgasm, milking Mycroft's cock so mercilessly that the elder Holmes abandoned all semblance of control and rode his brother until his own climax erupted.

When his post-coital shivers subsided, Mycroft pulled out slowly and slumped into a half-sitting, half-kneeling position against the seat behind him. Sherlock's empty hole continued to spasm before it finally closed, sending lube and semen dribbling down his crack. Mycroft had never seen anything so nasty yet beautiful before, and reached out to stroke those trembling buttocks.

It was Irene who broke the silence. "Well, Mr. Holmes," she said as she gazed at her phone's screen, "if I'd known that cooperating with you entailed such delicious fringe benefits…."

She turned the display toward him. Despite the small screen dimensions, he saw all too clearly that she had started filming the moment he sank into Sherlock's body, and didn't stop until the grand finale.

Mycroft lunged for her, but she was too fast. Before he was on his feet, she had vanished through the curtain that separated the cabin from the plane's door, and the portable staircase rattled with the force of her departure.

"Don't bother chasing her," Sherlock sighed as he sat up. When his sore buttocks rested against his heels, he hissed in pain and forced himself to stand. "She definitely has an escape plan in place."

"I know. God damn it."

In addition to spread-eagled princesses and hogtied politicians, Irene Adler's phone now had the Holmes brothers in action.

His mobile dinged. It was an incoming text from Irene, complete with video attachment.

_I know you'd like your own copy. Til later, Mr. Holmes. IA_

A moment later, a second one arrived.

_Your secret is safe with me. As long as I'm safe, of course. P.S. Jim who? Bored with him now. You'll take him down without my assistance, I'm sure._

Then a third.

_You handled Sherlock better than I could have. Well done._

Forceful thoughts burned through Mycroft's brain like fever cells.

_That bitch!_

_She used Sherlock, and made a fool out of me. _

_God, what a woman._

"I hope you're going to apologize," Sherlock said as he hunted for his pants and trousers.

"Apologize?"

"You had a go at me for letting Irene fool me. Now it seems we have that in common."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose that's fair," Mycroft sighed as he rearranged his clothing.

Sherlock regarded him solemnly. "I don't want an apology for anything else that's happened tonight. In fact, I want to thank you. I… I feel different. Better. Calmer, but not bored. It's intriguing."

Mycroft pocketed the phone and approached his brother. "Come here," he murmured, extending his arms. Sherlock came to him without hesitation. He didn't return the embrace, but he did rest his cheek against Mycroft's shoulder.

"You know I care about you, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "That's why I let it be you. There wasn't a minute when I felt I was in danger. How did you know what would work for me?"

"Because it worked for me once."

A moment of silence. Then Mycroft felt his brother grin against his shoulder. "You realize that you've created a monster? If this is what you'll be doing whenever I misbehave, I might just become worse than ever."

"Then so will I, little brother." Mycroft dropped his hands to that firm, bruised arse and squeezed the sore muscles.

And Sherlock's smile widened.

END

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><p>Thanks to all who read and reviewed! You guys made me what I am today :D<p> 


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